


Grounded

by fansofcollisions



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Flying, Gen, Panic Attacks, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:09:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fansofcollisions/pseuds/fansofcollisions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a bit of trouble knowing how to cope with his eldest son having a panic attack 30,000 feet in the air.</p><p>(Dean's fear of flying has to have originated somewhere, after all.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grounded

John didn’t understand it. This wasn’t the first time they’d taken a plane and Dean had never kicked up a fuss before. He had a battle situation on his hands in Wyoming and three other hunters waiting on him to get there right the _hell_ now, and what he was doing was attempting to coax a petulant nine year old down a jetway.

If he didn’t owe Bobby big for saving his hide on numerous and varied occasions, he’d probably have said fuck it all to hell and let the other anonymous hunters handle it. With the latest demon trail running cold and no progress made in almost four months, he couldn’t afford this type of distraction.

To put it mildly, he really wasn’t in the mood for coddling today.

Dean had been stubbornly glaring at a spot on the wall for over two minutes now with no signs of yielding in his adamant refusal to move. Patience shot, John grabbed Dean’s wrist and dragged him along towards the mouth of the plane door. Thank god the kid was light because he was putting up a hell of a fight, every little muscle straining in silent rebellion. Sammy dawdled along behind, consumed in a one-sided dialogue with the dollar store plushie John had swiped when they stopped for a quick snack on the way to the airport, utterly oblivious to all around him. At least he was diverted easily enough. John didn’t have the energy to deal with two moody boys, not today.

Even once they were settled, with Sam having claimed the window seat and John guarding the aisle Dean’s glare didn’t relent. He clenched his fists in perfect form for a right hook. John feared a little for the fate of the seat back in front, which his son was eyeing so resolutely. Sammy babbled on.

Well, at least Dean’s mutiny was wordless. John had a lot of catching up to do during this flight and he needed his concentration. Sighing in resignation to the task, he pulled from his bag the journal and another book, a weighty mildewed volume, and set to work. He knew next to nothing about vampire lore, not past hackneyed Dracula-esque popcorn flicks which he’d been assured was an absolutely shitty representation of the species. The nest was massive apparently, big enough that the hunter community was calling all hands on deck. Flipping open to the next available page, John set to work taking notes, and hoped beyond hope he’d packed the jars in his suitcase with enough plastic shopping bags to cushion their journey. Nothing would end their trip faster than the authorities pulling a blood-soaked bag with his name attached onto the tarmac.

The wheels rumbled beneath them as the plane began to move forward. John barely noticed, so absorbed was he in his work. He didn’t notice the blood begin to drain from Dean’s face either, the way his skin turned the pasty colour of oatmeal or how the glare faded from his eyes, replaced with the wide-eyed terror of a trapped animal.

Liftoff. The engine roared, drowning out any sounds either of his sons could have been making. He thought Dean might have whispered something, but then again, lots of things whispered to John these days. He ignored it.  

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean make some sort of quick, aborted movement with his hand towards John’s armrest. The gesture was just as quickly redrawn.

Twenty minutes into the flight found John still trying to puzzle through the first chapter. The language was archaic and dense and damned nearly incomprehensible for the average joe who wasn’t used to leafing through this type of text. Head pounding, he flipped another page, when he heard soft whimpering beside him. Probably Sam’s ears popping. _Buck up, kiddo, there’s another hour ahead_. Doing his best to stamp down his annoyance at the distraction, he turned his head to the side to survey the younger boy and vaguely wondered if he had any gum left in his bag to ease his suffering.

To his surprise, his eyes landed on a five year old nestled into the dip below the window, for all he could tell asleep. Confused, John turned his gaze to his other son.

Dean was hunched over in his seat, head bobbing back and forth slightly. His fists were clenched in a death grip on thin air. There were white fingernail marks like scars crisscrossing his palms in every direction. Eyes closed, every few moments he let out a few shuttered breaths, punctuated by sounds John would have expected from a wounded dog. Not his kid.

 _Jesus_ , he breathed internally, and reached out his palm to feel Dean’s head for a fever. His son flinched away from the touch violently. Whatever control he had had over himself was evaporated and he began to heave dry sobs, scrawny body convulsing with the force of his distress.

“Dean?” came a sleepy word. _Shit_. Sam was awake. That was the last thing he needed. Predictably, as soon as Sammy saw his brother was upset his lower lip began to tremble. _Shit shit shit_. If Sam started to bawl now it wasn’t going to stop. Dean let out a low moan. “Daddy, what’s wrong with him?” Sam whispered, eyes gleaming.

“He’s just not feeling that well, kiddo. But he’s fine. Go back to sleep.” Truth is, he had no idea what was wrong with Dean. He’d seen him face monsters down the barrel of a sawed-off and blast them away with the cocky air of a seasoned hunter, never a flicker of fear in his eyes. He hadn’t seen him look this scared since… hell, he’d never seen him look this scared. The thought made him sick to his stomach with anxiety, which was only compounded by the increasingly aggravated looks of the surrounding passengers. Desperately he searched around in the pocket in front of him for a barf bag.

“If you were sick you should have said so,” John couldn’t stop himself from snapping as he handed over the white paper bag. Dean’s whimpered _I’m sorry_ made him want to withdraw the words, but it was too late. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling utterly lost.

Sammy’s face was starting to screw up, a wail imminent and he was helpless to stop it. John braced himself for the scream, knowing there was nothing he could do to prevent it, but it never came. One of Dean’s fists had unclenched and reached over to thread itself through his little brother’s hair. “S’ok, Sammy. I’m good,” he said through gritted teeth. His voice only shook slightly.

“You sure?”

“Course,” Dean said, finally opening his eyes to shoot Sam a grin so painfully forced it made John’s teeth ache in sympathy. Sam still looked unconvinced, so Dean mustered up his best teasing voice and said, “Your stupid pony’s missing you, so you better go play with it.”

“S’not a pony, it’s a _horse_ ,” Sam whined in indignation and turned away. Crisis averted. Thanks to Dean, who was turning greener by the second, and John just sat there as his eldest fixed the problem. Guess Dean was pretty good at that. He was relieved, but guilt flavoured it.

“You ok?” John whispered, knowing how stupid the question was. The answer was written all across Dean’s face. He was so far from alright that his distress could probably be seen all 30,000 feet below.

But because he didn’t know what else to do, he accepted Dean’s soft _yeah_ and pretended he believed him. What else could he do? His calloused hands couldn’t produce Mary’s soft touch that had soothed Dean’s cries when he was a toddler, always running into headlong into things in his boundless enthusiasm. His hands ached to stroke Dean’s hair like she would have, to soothe him with soft words that John didn’t know the form of.

He was certain he’d screw it up. He’d make it worse, he’d fuck it up like he’d fucked up just about everything with these boys. So instead, he rummaged through his bag, while Dean stared straight ahead a glazed, disconnected look. Triumphant, he pulled a mess of chords out from beneath the small stack of books.

“Here,” John said, and pulled the pair of headphones over Dean’s ears. His hand came away sticky with sweat, though his forehead was cool, too cool for a fever. John couldn’t fathom it. This was the strangest sickness he’d seen. (Hell, had he _ever_ seen Dean sick?) Dean stared up at him, confused. “It’ll help you take your mind off things.”

There was a faint hum, then the muffled sound of guitar as the Metallica tape started up. John convinced himself that Dean’s face relaxed a little, that his breathing evened out just a bit. He patted his arm and Dean didn’t flinch away this time. Maybe the worst was past.

Doing his best to ignore the churn of guilt in his gut, he returned to the journal and his research, knowing that there were three men waiting for him at landing whose lives were in his hands, who he could get seriously hurt if he didn’t know what he was doing. He had to be prepared to handle anything, it was absolutely imperative. Dean was alright, he always was.

Dean didn’t make another sound for the rest of the flight. He didn’t speak a word in the terminal, but John was pleased to see him drag Sam back from the luggage carousel which he’d managed to clamber upon while John’s back was turned. Back to his old self, then. Always taking care of the both of them. He allowed himself a small smile of relief.

He needed his son, now of all times, to be his rock, the one he could count upon. Seeing him weak like that, _vulnerable_ , that was terrifying. God knows they couldn’t afford for anything like that episode to happen on a hunt.  Hopefully it was only a one-time thing.

 _You_ tell _me if you’re not alright, you understand?_

_Yes, Sir._

_Jesus, Dean. You scared the hell out of me back there._

_I’m sorry._

_…Go grab your things from the trunk._

John dropped the boys off at the motel, satisfied by Dean’s renewed, if weary, bickering with his brother that he was fit enough to care for Sam, before speeding off in the rental to campout near the nest, all other concerns blanketed by the adrenaline of the anticipated kill. He soon forgot his worries. As long as they didn’t fly again, there was nothing to be concerned about.

Back at the motel, Dean put Sam to bed, kissed his forehead and walked to the bathroom. The florescent lights glared like a thousand pinpricks of distant light, the glow of a city from on high. Dean knelt on the floor and vomited until there was nothing left in him. He knelt there for a while, savouring the cool, solid linoleum below his knees.

The moon was out when he left the bathroom. He checked that his brother was still breathing before crawling beneath the covers beside him. He went to sleep and dreamed of planes crashing, and Sammy crying, and fire.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the majority of this sitting in the airport and nearly missed my second flight because of it. Oops. Finished the rest on the plane back to my hometown. I wonder where the inspiration came from?


End file.
